Real Ghost Stories
by LeeMarieJack
Summary: A collection of Winchester ghost hunts based on real life stories. I plan to try to work up some of the most famous haunts. If you have a favorite, PM me with the suggestion and I'll see what I can do with it.
1. Chapter 1-Ghosts of Laramie Wyoming

The Supernatural characters belong to Kripke Enterprises and the CW, not me. No money is being made from this story. It is for entertainment only.

**Real Ghost Stories**

Chapter 1

**Fort Laramie Phantoms**

The Impala rumbled up to the gates of Fort Laramie Historical Site and waited for the Park Ranger to open up his little booth's window.

"Hi," Dean smiled. "We're here to meet with Ranger McDonald."

"Are you the guys about the ghost?" the uniformed Ranger asked.

Dean was shocked. He answered, "Short and sweet, yes." He had never expected to be greeted openly by a government employee as 'the guys here to see about the ghost'. It was like they were plumbers here to see about the leak.

Sam leaned forward to get a good look at Dean's face. "Maybe we should get uniforms." He snickered.

"Shut up bitch," Dean pushed him back into his seat with one arm. "We don't do uniforms."

The Ranger grimaced "Are you guys done?" He looked from one brother to the other. "Drive straight ahead until you see the building with a sign that says Administration. McDonald's waiting for you there."

The Ranger shut his little sliding window and pick up a clipboard. Dean imagined the guy checking off a little box beside 'Ghost hunters, expected 11 AM.'

They followed the neatly graveled road, edged by a perfectly manicured lawn, to the Admin building, parked and stepped out of the car. A screen door swung open, held by another Ranger. "Campbells?"

Dean climbed the stairs and Sam stood momentarily by the Impala, trying to gauge their reception.

"Well, come on in. I'm Ranger Brad McDonald. Been waiting for you." He turned and disappeared into the cool darkness of the building.

The brothers moved to enter. The warm Wyoming sun encouraged a dive into shadow and the room beckoned with promises of comfortable chairs and cool drinks. The Ranger was moving around at a long counter and the pleasant sound of ice cubes rattling in glasses echoed in the room.

"Have a seat." McDonald waved at the fat leather chairs. "Let me fill you in on our problem." He handed each of them a tall glass of clear soda.

McDonald was an older man, neatly uniformed and gray haired. He could be described as 'tidy'. For some reason he made Dean think of the neatly mowed grass and raked gravel outside. He wondered if McDonald had turned this park into the fabled tight ship.

"I don't know what, if anything, you might know about Fort Laramie," he started.

"Not all that much," Dean said. "Garth just told us you were having problems with what he called 'a long time ghost' and told us to get up here and that the Park Service was willing to pay us for our time."

"That's right." McDonald responded. "I understand you guys are supposed to be the best. I'd like this cleared up with the least amount of fuss. Really don't want it to get out that the US Park Service is paying to have their ghosts cleaned up."

Dean and Sam nodded together. "That's fine with us." Sam said. "The less noise the smoother the hunt."

Ranger McDonald looked up at them. "Yeah, that's what Fitzgerald called it, a hunt."

"Fort Laramie was manned by the U.S. Calvary from 1834 to 1890. The men were tasked with keeping peace and order in the territory and she was known as The Queen of the Frontier Forts. From here settlers set out on the Oregon, the California and the Bozeman trails, all heading away for new lives out west. People passed through and never came back. Calvary officers brought their families and lived at the Fort for years. Lots of history, death and drama worked its way out at this Fort. It would take days to bring you up to speed on all the history here."

Dean smiled. "I leave that stuff up to Sam. I'm sure by the time we leave he'll have it all memorized."

McDonald turned to Sam. "A historian, are you?"

"No," Sam replied. "I just like to know about places. I've done a little research on the Fort on our way over here and I was wondering just which one of your phantoms you are having trouble with. It would be my guess that it would be George."

"That's what we call it, though we don't know whether or not it's a man. We don't know why he's here, we just know he is." Ranger McDonald agreed.

"How is it that you picked George as the trouble maker, Sam?"

"Your two most famous ghosts are George and the Green Lady; at least, your two best documented ghosts. I know that George has been a problem going back decades. He haunts the Captain's Quarters and won't leave the doors alone."

Sam went on. "The Green Lady's last published appearance was in 1871 but it is rumored that she appears every seven years, riding her black stallion at a breakneck pace and disappearing without warning out in the hills. I just don't see her coming into the fort and causing trouble."

Ranger McDonald sat back in his chair and took a sip of his drink. "Yes, it's George who has become a bigger problem for us. We can't keep those doors locked anymore. They get opened as soon as somebody turns their back. We've needed to post guards lately. There are a lot of value antiques in that building that anyone would be happy to wander off with. Besides that, George used to slap the guards on the back as they went on their rounds trying to lock up. Lately the slaps have escalated to the point that guards are actually ending up on the ground from the force of them. I'm afraid that someone is really going to get hurt."

Ranger McDonald eyed the Winchesters. "You guys sure you can clean this up for us? You're awfully young for so called experts."

"Don't worry about us." Dean replied. "We were raised in this life. Just point us to the Captain's Quarters and give us a guard to show us the hot spots. We're going to get some gear out of the car. The only thing we are going to ask of you is to provide a place in the building where we can draw on the floor and not screw anything up."

"The entry way is mortared brick. Will that work? I'll take you around and show you the building. As much as possible I want this whole thing limited as to the number of people involved."

XXXXXXX

Ranger McDonald got them settled in the entryway, a sort of tunnel that went through the middle of the officer's quarters to provide cover for men arriving on horseback. The brick floor was worn smooth from decades of use. The old two story wood frame house still was in good condition, something Dean thought Ranger McDonald took care of just as much as the lawn and the driveway. Not even inanimate objects were allowed to slack off under the ranger's watchful eye.

They watched as the guards went around locking the perimeter doors. "Just leave these two entry doors alone." Dean instructed. "We'll take care of them later."

They settle down on the steps and waited for the men to leave. Once alone Sam got down on his knees and started drawing traps on the bricks. These were not demon traps. These were spirit traps and not a normal part of a hunter's equipment. Sam had studied Bobby's books all his life and thought that these circles and the associated symbols could hold a spirit when there were no bones or artifacts left. They were especially helpful with ghosts of unknowns, such as George.

One old guard, who had since retired, had named the ghost George simply to have something to call it. The old man had talked to George as if George were a friend of his and Sam and Dean suspected the reason that George had gone bad was because his only friend no long came around

They placed a copper bowl on the brick and Sam added various herbs and talismans.

"God damn it, Sam. Is this going to take blood?" Dean whined.

Sam rocked back on his heels and looked at his brother. "When have we ever done one of these spells that didn't need blood, Dean?" Sam placed the bowl in the center of one of his circles and sat back down on the steps. He sliced his palm and reached out for Dean's. The brothers' blood splashed into the bowl.

"Now what?" Dean grumbled as he wrapped a strip of cloth over his slashed palm.

"Now we wait until we see these doors swinging open. That increases our chances of getting the spirit in one of the circles when we light up the summoning bowl. So get comfortable. We may be here a while." Sam replied.

"While we're waiting, why don't you tell me all about the Lady in Green?" Dean asked.

"You can't hit on her Dean, so what's the point?" Sam laughed. "It'd be a long time between dates. She only comes around about every seven years."

Dean smacked Sam's shoulder. "Smartass. Just tell me the story, bitch."

"Alright, alright, don't hit me, I'm talking. It's just you are usually telling me to shut up." Sam was smiling and pushed his brother off the step. "Jerk."

"In the mid 1800's an officer arrived here bringing with him his teen-aged daughter. She was a lovely, high spirited young lady with long dark hair and an attitude uncommon for the times. He father dragged her out here to the edge of the Frontier to keep her from marrying a man he deemed unsuitable. His daughter did not agree and became angry and unmanageable. "

"Mostly likely as a form of rebellion she took long, solitary rides on a black stallion her father owned. She would ride out for hours, alone, across the Sioux dominated plains. One day, as you might expect, she didn't come back."

Dean looked up at a scrapping sound. One of the heavy entrance doors had moved. As he watched, it settled and he thought it might just be the prairie wind that moved it. The air was growing chill and the wind moaned over the Wyoming hills, blowing straight through their summoning scene.

Sam went on. "Over the years sightings of her were reported and the local Sioux clans and tribal bands began to talk of a Wasicun woman on a black horse who rode the hills alone."

"There is a documented sighting from 1871. A Lt. James Nicholas Allison arrived that year to take up command of a cavalry unit. He and some of his new friends went wolf hunting one afternoon and he and his dog got separated from the group."

"While riding the hills back to the fort he saw a lone woman, dressed in green, riding a large black stallion all out down in the valley. Her hair was streaming loose from her hat and a black veil covered her face. Even at the speed the horse was traveling she was urging it on with blows from a riding crop. Believing her to be in imminent danger from a pursuer Allison wheeled his horse and charged down the hill."

"She rode up the other side of the valley and Allison's horse was no match for the stallion. By the time he reached the top of the hill she was gone. He could see miles in every direction and could not see the rider or her horse."

"One thing struck Allison as strange at that point. His dog had not pursued the rider with him. The dog had stayed at the place where Allison had first seen the woman."

Dean heard the entry door move again. It was still only a light scrapping noise but he decided to keep an eye peeled.

Sam went on with his story. "When Allison returned to the fort he was set on getting up a search party but his fellow officers told him not to bother. He had seen The Green Lady and she had been presumed dead for decades. No search party was going to help."

"No one knows how she died. No one ever found her body or the carcass of the stallion. She simply rides the Wyoming Hills, fleeing from a danger only she knows."

With Sam's last word the entry door slammed full open and Dean dived for the summoning bowl. Tossing his lighter in, the materials ignited, sending a small tower of flame straight up. The flame sunk down and a wind vortex formed, rattling the bowl.

"What now, Sam?" Dean yelled.

"I think we've got him." Sam agreed. "Let me get out my prayer."

"Not an exorcism?"

"He's a spirit, not a demon." Sam replied. "I just want to set him to rest, not to Hell. I have some Catholic prayers that are proven powerful. As long as he was a Christian, they should work"

**Prayer of St. Thomas Aquinas**

_Grant me, O Lord my God,_

_a mind to know you,_

_a heart to seek you,_

_wisdom to find you,_

_conduct pleasing to you,_

_faithful perseverance in waiting for you,_

_and hope of finally embracing you._

_Amen  
_

**A Prayer for the Forgotten Dead**

_O merciful God,_

_Take pity on this soul_

_Who has no particular friends and intercessors_

_To recommend him to Thee, who,_

_Either through the negligence of those who are alive,_

_Or through length of time is now forgotten_

_By his friends and by all._

_Spare him, O Lord,_

_And remember Thine mercy_

_When others forget to appeal to it._

_Let not the souls which Thou hast created_

_Be parted from thee, their Creator._

_May the souls of all the faithful departed,_

_Through the mercy of God, rest in peace._

_Amen_

Silence descended.

X

X

X

x

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

XXXXXXX

I used a book called "Ghosts of the Old West" by Earl Murray (1988) as a reference for this story.


	2. Chapter 2-Ghost in Thelma Todd's Garage

The Supernatural characters belong to Kripke Enterprises and the CW, not me. No money is being made from this story. It is for entertainment only.

**Real Ghost Stories**

Chapter 2

**The Ghost in Thelma Todd's Garage**

The Winchesters were heading for Santa Monica, California from Las Vegas. They had driven through the Mojave Desert towards Victorville and intended to drop into the L.A. Basin by way of the El Cajon Pass.

"You'll like this, Dean," Sam smiled. "We start at 3,700 feet and end up at sea level. It's like landing a plane." They had covered the 300 miles from Las Vegas by taking turns driving and Sam was currently at the controls. It had taken five and a half hours to cover the trip because of the traffic and Dean had a twist in his shorts about it..

"Never again, Sam." Dean grumped. "This place is just too crowded. Give me some wide open spaces without somebody's tail pipe in my face.'

"And now you tell me that we're going to turn the Impala into an airplane. Sounds good, bitch."

Sam shook his head. "I can't help it, that's just the way it is. The L.A. Basin is like a giant bite out of the coastal mountains. It's a huge bite, hundreds of miles from edge to edge and only the northern side is a gradual rise. We're dropping down between two mountain ranges on the Southern edge; the San Bernardino range and the San Gabriels and it's like falling off a cliff. Wait until you see it."

"I don't want to see it," Dean grumped. "I don't like the place. Why are we here anyway?"

Sam wanted to pet Den on the head like he was calming a growling puppy but thought he might get his hand bitten off. "Lighten up, bro. We're going to see a man about a ghost then we're going to hunt it and we'll be right on the beach. When we're done we can go sit on the sand and watch the early morning surfers."

They rumbled on through the flat urban sprawl of L.A., The freeways wove their ways through the landscape like veins in a piece of meat. The cars never ended, they never stopped. There were neon signs on the side of the freeway for a while then there came a break and there would be trees or hills, or freaking piles of crumbling soil and then another urban landscape was presented.

"Do you know where we are right now? " Sam asked.

"How would I know? It all looks the same and then it freaks out and the houses disappear and trees grow all lonely on hillsides. This is one wierd road." Dean replied.

"Well, on the other side of this pass is the city of Pasadena, where they hold the Rose Parade every New Year's Day. This pass is where a hundred years ago bandits would wait for people trying to get to the San Fernando Valley. They would be ambushed and murdered for whatever they had on them. The bandits were never caught and now they say that the ghosts of the dead are trapped here in the pass." Sam looked over the soft brown hills. "I understand you never want to break down on this road at night. You can still hear the victims screaming."

"You tell such charming stories, Sam." Dean muttered. "We aren't here for these ghosts, right? Let's just move on to the one we agreed to gank and get out of town. How about San Francisco?"

Sam smiled at his antsy brother. "Calm down. We'll get there."

They drove on through the city and finally found the freeway that took them out to the Pacific Ocean. When the Santa Monica Freeway ended with a tunnel they came out on the Pacific Coast Highway, watching the sun begin to sink into the ocean and the traffic begin to build on one of the busiest road systems in the world.

"Do we have to take this road, Sam?" Dean whined as another car brushed by and he imagined he heard the grinding of metal panels.

"Sorry, Dean. The location is right on this roadway, set back not more than fifty feet. Just enough room for a long, thin parking lot. We'll be alright. Please calm down." Sam was nervous enough wrestling his way between more cars than he had ever had to deal with before and they seemed to be coming from all directions. His heart was in his throat and now he had to deal with a flinching big brother

"You aren't helping, you know," Sam complained through gritted teeth. "Try and keep calm. I'm sure they aren't really trying to hit us."

Dean crossed his arms. "I blame you for this."

Sam pounded his head on the steering wheel.

"Hey," barked Dean. "Watch where you're going, bitch. You scratchthis car and you'll wake up bald in the morning."

"Really not helping, Dean." Sam ground out again and then glanced at his brother. All he could see was the seat of Dean's pants. His idiot brother was leaning out the window, yelling at the other drivers. Sam grabbed Dean by his belt and dragged him back through the window, banging Dean's head on the frame.

"What the hell, Sam! That hurt!" Dean sat rubbing the back of his head where he had clipped the window.

"It hurts a lot less than you getting shot in the face," Sam snapped. "This is freaking L.A., man. A lot of the drivers you're yelling at are armed. I've told you twice now. You aren't helping. I need you to help me. This is ridiculous. It's like being stuck in a car video game." Sam was turning red and his hands were so tight on the steering wheel that there was a good possibility that he might snap it.

"Alright, Sammy," Dean finally answered in a reasonable voice. "What do you need me to do? Calm down, little brother. We'll work it out. What do you need?"

"I need you to navigate. We need to find the intersection of this road and San Vicente Blvd. Keep an eye out for the signs. The sun is setting into my eyes and I don't seem to be able to read the signs. Is there a pair of sunglasses anywhere in the car?"

Dean started pawing through the car, looking for sunglasses. Now that he had a clear headed moment he noticed that almost every driver on the road was wearing shades. He had always regarded wearing shades to be the sign of a weakling but now he got the feeling that in L.A. they were an essential part of the road warrior's kit.

"Ok, Sam, this light is San Vicente Boulevard, " Dean called out.

Sam responded, "Now watch along that side of the road. You're looking for a long multi-storied building built into the cliff face. I'm going to work my way over to the right and as soon as you see it we're bailing out of this circus."

They finally found safe harbor in an old, busted up parking lot. Everything was old, including the man sitting on the steps waiting for them. Once they parked the man stood up and walked to the driver's side window. "Hi, I'm Rodney George. Are you kids the ghost hunters?"

Sam looked over the old man's face. He was worn and looked tired. Too many years and too many stories had passed before his eyes, each one cutting a new line in his face.

Sam exited the car, shaking out his jean's legs. "Hi, I'm Sam Campbell and this is my brother Dean. I guess you were expecting us, Mr. George."

'Please call me Rodney. It's bad enough getting old without you kids rubbing it in," the old man responded.

"Sorry." chorused both Sam and Dean.

"Well, come on in and I'll show you where we have trouble." They followed Rodney into the building.

Once inside Sam turned in a circle, taking in all the detail he could. "So this was Thelma Todd's restaurant, right?

Rodney looked at Sam." Bit of an old film buff, are you?"

"Me and my brother too. Dean seems to like the stories after the Second World War and I like the ones before. We pretty much cover it from that viewpoint." Sam went on. "You actually knew Thelma Todd?"

Rodney nodded his head. "Yeah, I knew her, in a way. I was a bus boy here in the restaurant. " He pulled out a picture from a leather case on the table and handed it to Sam. Sam took a brief look and handed it off to Dean.

"Wow," Dean exclaimed. "She was really beautiful." He handed the picture back to Rodney.

"They called her "the Hot Toddy", "the Ice Cream Blonde" and "the Blonde Venus". Rodney murmured. The old man stroked the picture lightly, removing invisible dust then put it back in the case.

"Yes, she was beautiful. Miss Massachusetts of 1925. Got her first picture contract based solely on that photo. It was silent movies at the time. They were just starting out here in L.A. with the movies. The city grew along with Hollywood."

Rodney sat down and waved the Winchesters into chairs. He pulled some beers out of a cooler that was hiding under the table. "Nine years," he muttered softly. "Nine years was all it took this place to kill her. Suicide the District Attorney said. Suicide! With busted ribs and a fat lip and blood all over the car's upholstery, they called it Suicide while the balance of her mind was disturbed."

"How, did they get away with that?" Sam asked quietly. He knew an open wound when he saw one.

"They called them the Roaring Twenties for a reason." Rodney went on. "Drinking and drugs and gambling and watch your back, protect what's yours or someone will try to take it away from you. Girls in short dresses, all night parties, fancy cars, Hollywood was Sodom and Gomorra to the rest of the county."

"Those in power were worried that one more scandal would sink the whole thing. There had been a string of scandals; Fatty Arbuckle's orgy party, Rudy Valentino's bigamy trial, so many others. And they were getting in the papers! No T.V. or internet then. Things were easier to hide."

"Poor Thelma had a thing for bad boys. The night she died she had a public screaming match with her ex-husband, Pat DeCicco, a playboy with a nasty streak and Mafia connections. The fight had occurred in public at the Trocadero nightclub. When she got home the night of December 15, 1935 she had another loud screaming match with her boyfriend and business partner, Roland West, who locked her out of the apartment and went to bed. That fight was loud enough to wake the neighbors. On his death bed West was still claiming that her death was his fault. That if he hadn't locked her out she would still be alive."

"No one really knew what happened after that or how she ended up locked in the garage with the car's engine running, dressed in a full length mink coat and $20,000 in gems. A third bad boy in her life was "Lucky" Luciano, the Mafia boss who wanted to put a gambling den on the third floor of the restaurant. Thelma had told him "No" and Luciano didn't like it."

Rodney paused and took another swing of his beer. "Three men, all with reason to hurt her. Broken ribs, two broken teeth, a broken nose and the district Attorney declared it a "Suicide!" Her mother was pushing to get it recognized as a murder and a Grand Jury was convened to take evidence in spite of the corrupt District Attorney but it was too late. Someone got to the witnesses and no one would talk any more. The Grand Jury got nowhere."

"That alone stunk of Mafia and what do we have? A Mafia guy on the list of suspects, She never had a chance."

Rodney sighed. "No wonder she walks from the apartment to the garage every night." Another sigh. "It has to stop. She needs to rest. Can you help her?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Do you know where she's buried?"

Rodney looked up. "She was cremated. Her ashes were put in an urn that was buried with her mother out in Massachusetts. Mother and daughter in the same coffin, but that doesn't give her rest." Once again he asked, "Can you give her spirit rest?"

Sam stood up and placed his empty beer bottle on the table. "We'll do our best, Mr. George. Can you show us where she walks? And can we have the place to ourselves tonight?"

"I'll go make sure no one will bother you. Then I'll show you where Thelma walks." Rodney left them alone.

"What are we going to do about this, Sam?" Dean asked.

"She's got to go down somehow." Sam replied. "I'm just worried about why a spirit walks when the body is supposedly cremated. I only hope it is not a spirit in quest of revenge. That would be real tough."

Dean picked at the label on his empty beer bottle. "You think there's another beer in that cooler?"

"Sure, Dean. Good to know you have a laser like focus on the really important stuff, jerk." Sam snorted. "I'll just hang out over here and think about our hunt."

"No need to be a bitch about it, Sammy. I think better on beer." Dean settled into the chair next to the cooler.

"You know what, Sammy?" Dean said after the next beer. "Come sit down over here. I have an idea."

Sam sat at the table and, just to be a hypocrite, took another beer from Rodney's cooler.

"Look, there has to be something left here." Dean confided. "What was there? The clothes she was wearing, the jewelry, the car. Ok, those things we can look for. I just hope it's not Rodney's picture. I think that would break his heart. She had an apartment in the building. Maybe some of her stuff is left"

"Everything's gone." Rodney's voice came over Dean's shoulder.

"Oh, didn't hear you come back in, Rodney." Dean turned and looked at the old man. "Hope you don't mind that we drank your beer."

"Don't worry about it." Rodney laughed. "If that's all you guys want I'm happy to provide it though I thought I would go a little further than that and at least give you gas money."

Sam spoke up. "We've been thinking about this and we can see two ways this can go down. As long as the spirit hasn't gone bad we just have to find whatever she's attached to and burn it."

Rodney grabbed the last bottle of beer out from under Dean's hand. "Got a drinking problem, boy? Welcome to the club and take a close look. This is you in 40 more years if you keep it up." He settled in one of the chairs. "So that's the easy way? What's the hard way?"

Dean fielded this one. "If her spirit has turned inward and is concentrating on revenge we may have to do a full-fledged exorcism. I guarantee that neither you nor we want to have to do that. It's long and messy and leaves a stain anywhere it is performed."

"Well, how do we find out?" Rodney asked.

"Is there anything here from that night?" Sam asked.

Rodney looked around the room. "Oh, God, yes there is. Right there." He pointed a shaky old man's finger at a glass case mounted on the wall.

They walked over to it.

"What is this?" Dean asked. "Is this really the dress she died in? What kind of an idiot put this up?"

Rodney replied, "That stupid bastard Roland West. He was her business partner so he took over the restaurant after she died. He knew she had been the big draw that brought in all the hot parties. He thought if he could pretend it was a kind of a shrine to her he could keep the dollars rolling in for a while. I told you she went for the bad boys."

"That wasn't just a bad boy," Dean sneered. "He was a creep too."

"Let's get this opened up. I'll go get some tools." Dean headed for the door. "What you think Sam? Is this a possibility?"

"Oh yeah, this should work." Sam responded. "No matter how they try to clean something like that there's always something left behind. Between possible blood stains and the fact that this dress may have been the last thing she saw, it should be highly effective."

Rodney took them out to a pathway between the house and the garage. Thy sat down on some metal garden benches and watch Sam as he set up their 'magic'. He found an old bird bath that still was pretty sturdy. He placed his ever faithful copper bowl on it with Thelma's shimmering blue dress in the bowl, soaking in gasoline and poured salt on top of that. They sat down and waited. At about four in the morning a pale, frighten figure of a woman half ran, half stumbled, down the walkway. She constantly looked behind her and fear was etched on her face.

Dean stood in the path and held his hand out to her. She eyed the stranger's hand and Dean hoped that Sammy would hurry up so that he didn't have to let her touch it.

There was a soft 'whoomp' behind him and the ghost appeared to wrap up in her new flaming coat, no longer cold and, somehow Dean knew, no longer afraid of whatever was chasing her.

ooOoo

ooOoo

ooOoo

ooOoo

ooOoo

ooOoo

ooOoo

ooOoo

I used the book, "Haunted Houses of California" (1990) by Antoinette May as a reference for this story.


	3. Chapter 3- Warriors on the Hilltop

The Supernatural characters belong to Kripke Enterprises and the CW, not me. No money is being made from this story. It is for entertainment only.

**Real Ghost Stories**

Chapter 3

**Warriors on the Hilltop**

The wind stirred the tall dry grass on the top of a modest hill in Northwestern Nebraska. There was nothing to see; a half dry stream ran at the bottom of the hill and the vistas of clear blue sky went on forever, as the sky had a tendency to do on the plains. There were no buildings, no people; nothing to indicate that it wasn't 1775 or 1875 or any particular date at all. The prairie lay peaceful under the sun,

Nothing had changed since the buffalo had gone away a long, long time ago, along with the pony riders who followed the herds. The thunder of the bison's hooves had faded away a hundred years before. Now there was only the wind and, at night, the hoot of hunting owls, looking for mice in the grass.

But if you sat at the top of the hill, overlooking Warbonnet Creek, or Hat Creek, as it was now known, and you stayed until the moon was up you could hear the whispers of men, volume now rising, now falling, masked by the noise of the wind blown grass. Like a radio with bad reception those voices from the past traded secrets throughout the night.

XXXXX

Winchesters in their natural habitat, that was the atmosphere inside the Impala. Driving straight through the night they had come out of the West; from the northeast edge of Colorado to a road straight as the proverbial stick, stretching across the prairie state of Nebraska. The morning sun bounced off Deans' sun glasses.

He yawned and reached over to poke at Sam. "Hey, bitch, feel like breakfast?"

Sam woke and yawned. Stretching his arms out, he accidently punched the car roof with one hand while the other reach out the window. Dean saw him pet the roof of the car, sort of an apology for hitting the roof inside. Dean smiled. He loved his car but it was also about the only permanent home Sam had ever known. Dean had always suspected that Sam knew that the 'pala had feelings.

Dean wondered how the hell his brother had grown so large. He was also pleased that it had happened on big brother's watch. He had done a good job raising the kid and he was proud of it.

"Sam, do you remember when you were little that you called the car 'pala?

Sam's lips twitched with a small smile. "No, I don't really remember that. How old was I? Five? Six?

"Old enough." Dean smiled. "She has always been a big, black security blanket, for both of us. It's OK to apologize when you hurt her."

"So you saw that, did you?" Sam actually blushed.

God, the kid was so easy, Dean thought to himself. "So, breakfast sound good?"

"Absolutely. Let's find a diner," Sam reached in the back and pulled some papers out of his duffle. "Since we're so close I thought we might go see Warbonnet Creek. I want to show you some stuff about it. We need a table."

"Sam, we can't go wandering off on every side road that attracts your attention," Dean shook his head. "We'll never get where we're going."

They pulled into a rest area with a diner, parked and continued bickering on their way to the door.

"Dean," Sam went on. "It's just a day and a night. That poltergeist is still going to be there on Thursday. Besides it's our civic duty to go see this place. It's haunted. We should go mop it up and make sure no one gets into trouble."

The hostess came forward to seat them and was knocked back on her heels with the power of a full-on Dean Winchester smile. He winked at her and poked an elbow into Sam side at the same time.

"Oof." Sam responded. "Look at that, you're multi-tasking. I knew that brain cell of yours had a friend. Two thoughts at once! You make me proud, big brother."

"Shut up, Sam."

Dean found out that the hostess's name was Bonnie and he worked his magic. They were quickly seated at a large table that Bonnie's boss liked to reserve for families and groups but Bonnie was convinced that Dean needed room to go over maps of the property he wanted to buy, right here, in this very town. The poor girl was dizzy with expectation.

"Dean." hissed Sam. "Can't you keep it in your pants for at least one meal?"

Dean smirked back at Sam. "Why should I? Never know when you might need a backup plan."

Sam pushed all the hardware on the table top aside and spread out a couple of maps and a bright, shiny tourist's brochure.

"Looks like the Chamber of Commerce puked on the table." Dean said, pushing at the brochure with a finger. "What's the story here, Sam?"

The story of the Indian wars," Sam responded. "The same old story; an indigenous people pushed out by another culture that was more violent and greedy; grasping for land to maintain its own ever expanding population. "

"Whoa, National Geographic much?" Dean sipped his coffee and smiled a thank you at Bonnie.

"Ok, I know," Sam responded. "I'm beating a drum for a long lost battle. But the Cheyanne had lived in Minnesota as farmers and fishermen for thousands of years and their world crumbled around them. Pushed ever further Westward they became a warrior culture. They became a hunting culture. Mounted on tough native horses they learned to hunt the buffalo over the grasslands. Then the hated settlers always followed them and the buffalo began to disappear."

Bonnie dropped plates of food in front of them, almost dumping Sam's in his lap since she could not take her eyes off Dean.

"Oh, so sorry," she muttered insincerely, ineffectively flapping a dish towel at him.

"It's all right. No harm done." Sam responded.

"Get a move on, Sam." Dean waved at the maps "before she pours your coffee refill on your balls."

'You've heard of Custer's Last Stand and the Battle of the Little Bighorn, right?" Sam lectured.

"Who hasn't?" Dean replied. "What does that have to do with this Warbonnet Creek haunting? I suppose it's a haunting, you haven't exactly got that far yet."

"Oh, it's a haunting alright," Sam went on.

"What is not generally mentioned, or published in school books is that the Cheyanne had been massacred twice in the preceding decade. The Sand Creek Massacre of November 1864 killed 150 to 200 Cheyanne, predominately unarmed women and their children. The Cheyanne, Sioux and the Arapahoe joined together and in January of 1865 they attacked the army's Camp Ranken with about 1,000 warriors. "

"Four years later, on November 17, 1868, George Armstrong Custer and his troops attacked a band of Cheyanne at the Battle of Washita River. The thing was, the Washita River camp was a defined Indian reservation. Custer and his men killed more than 100 peaceful Cheyanne, most of them, again , women and children.

The anger grew in the tribes. These men lost their world. They lost the prairies their fathers and grandfathers before them, had ridden as Kings. They lost the buffalo, killed off by Europeans not for food but for furs, leaving behind prairies full of denuded carcasses. They lost their wives and their children to armed men who regarded their loved ones as mere animals. No wonder Little Big Horn happened.

The Cheyanne, the Sioux and the Arapahoe gathered on June 25, 1876 and killed Custer and much of his 7th Calvary. That was Custer's Last Stand. The Indians saw it as revenge, the American government saw it as aggression and responded with another General and another Army."

"Sam." Dean said. "Take a breath. Your eggs are congealing."

Sam stopped and shoveled food into his mouth. Dean kept an eye on him in case he choked trying to get it down as fast as possible. Dean really enjoyed it when Sam became passionate about a subject. The warmth spread from one bother to the other and Dean felt like his world took a breath and became something precious again, something to be guarded.

Sam stopped shoveling and continued with his story. "After Little Bighorn the Cheyanne broke up into smaller bands and gradually they were swept up by the Army and placed on "reservations".

"These reservations were poorly maintained and poorly stocked. It was cold in Nebraska and the tribes had no nourishing food, or firewood or ways to protect their broken families. In the summer of 1876 about 200 to 300 hundred warriors made a break for the Black Hills of South Dakota where their allies, the Sioux, could protect them."

The government ordered Colonel Wesley Merritt and the 5th Calvary to intercept these breakaway Cheyanne and return them to the reservation. Along with Merritt was someone you'll recognize, the Indian Scout, "Wild Bill" Cody."

"I know him,' Dean crowed. " He was cool."

"Oh, yeah," Sam growled. "He was really cool". "The 5th Calvary intercepted the Cheyanne at Warbonnet Creek, our ghost site, and a supposed "duel" occurred between Wild Bill and a young warrior called Heova'che or Yellow Hair. Cody killed Yellow Hair with his Winchester carbine ( Dean made a small cheer) and then pulled out his Bowie knife and scalped Yellow Hair. "

"This scalping was the first "Scalp for Custer" incident and set off a wave of scalpings in "revenge" for Custer's death." Sam stopped to breathe and regain his temper. "Cody kept Yellow Hair's scalp and feather war bonnet, knife, and saddle and used them as props in his Wild West shows."

"The U. S. Government gave Cody the Medal of Honor for his service in the Indian wars. Today both he, and Custer, would be regarded as war criminals."

"A little harsh there, Sam."

"When someone says to you 'it won't matter in a hundred years' this is what matters a hundred years later; lives lost, families broken and ruined. History washed in Cheyanne blood. It is best to remember that the Victors in war write the history books, the defeated lose their voice."

Dean's hand paused above the tip tray. He dropped the money on top of the check, gave Bonnie another brilliant smile and said "Ok, I guess we're on our way to Warbonnet Creek, You call fill me in on the haunting in the car. Thanks for the history lesson and for completely destroying one of the few historical figures that I admired."

"Sorry, Dean." Sam replied. "It's always better to know the truth."

XXXXXXX

Back in the Impala Sam continued with his findings on the ghost.

"I just don't understand where this ghost or ghosts come from," he complained. "Yellow Hair was the only recorded death in this 'battle' and I don't know what he would be doing up on the hill."

"Tough one." Dean answered just to sympathize.

"I'll tell you what, I may not have any idea who is up on that hill but I might have an idea what do to about it. As we go through these little towns keep your eyes peeled for a market and some kind of tobacco shop. I need to buy some stuff.

"Ok, Mr. Mysterious." Dean responded. "Do you have any recent sightings of these supposed ghosts? We could just be chasing a local legend."

Sam started, "In September 1983 two men, John Grant and Lester Barton were participants in an historical reenactment of the bivouac of the Fifth Calvary. In these "living history "reenactments they go pretty far. Acting as Calvary men or Indian scouts the re-enactors dress the part and even follow the rules of a military encampment of a hundred years ago. They even had guard duty rotations which lead to first Grant and then Barton pulling guard duty on the top of the hill overlooking Warbonnet Creek."

"As Grant told the story, it was a cold night and the view was spectacular. The moon appeared and disappeared behind the clouds as an approaching storm lit up the horizon with lightening. There was only wind, dark clouds and sporadic lightening."

Sam took a breath and went on. "He then heard men whispering. He couldn't make out what they were saying but it was definitely men's voices and the whispering was all around him. He stood and circled the monument built on top of the hill and when he came back around to where he had been sitting there was a greenish mist "boiling" along the ground and moving upward towards the monument. "Boiling" was his word. It was his best attempt to describe the movement of the mist."

"He had a half an hour left in his rotation but he just took off. He ran to the duty tent and met Lester Barton coming out to replace him. Grant said nothing to Barton."

Den glanced over at his brother. "Spooky, Sam. A lovely crawling mist. You take me out to all the best places."

"Shut up, jerk. Early the next morning Grant and Barton got together. They found that they had both seen the same thing and they were both completely freaked out. They reported the sighting and the sounds to their University's history department and the story got out. That why we are heading to Warbonnet Creek. Actually, it has been re-named. It is now Hat Creek, and lies just northwest of Hayes, Nebraska." Sam fell silent.

It wasn't too long before they passed through a fairly large town and Sam spotted a smoke shop. He had Dean drop him off and he sent Dean to go find a market and buy some sugar, a cloth bag for the sugar, if he could find one, and maple sugar candies. "Any description of candy, Dean. But it must be pure. No processed candy. If you can't find anything like that forget it and just get the sugar."

They met back together in front of a Starbucks. "See, Sam," Dean snorted. "Civilization even deep inside rural Nebraska. "

It was late afternoon when they set off to the "Hat Creek State Historic Site", now maintained by the State of Nebraska, a proud memorial to the destruction of the Cheyanne. They pulled up about a half mile from the Park Ranger's building and waited for the rangers to leave.

In the early twilight they gathered together a duffle bag with some blankets and weapons, just in case, and Sam's shopping list of items. They hiked up to the top of Monument Hill and looked out over the prairie. Just like the night of John Grant's re-enactment it was cloudy and windy. They didn't get the lightening display but the night was young. They spread out their blanket under the lip of the monument and huddled together.

"Great, Sam," Dean grumbled. "A picnic in the dark. Here, give me some more of that blanket, you pig. You're hording it. We got anything to drink?" He propped his feet up on their duffle, ankles crossed.

"I didn't bring you out here to get drunk like a couple of teenagers in a graveyard," Sam grumbled right back. "Quiet down. Remember? We're listening for whispers." Sam grudgingly let Dean steal more of their blanket and sat with his back against the cold stone monument, his eyes closed, straining to hear whispers.

"So, Sam," Dean spoke. "You have any ideas about who these ghosts might be?"

"Yes, I do. You have to remember these men had been held on a reservation all winter with very little food, in most likely insanitary conditions and without heat. The diseases the whites brought with them swept through the Indian populations. They were desperate to reach the Black Hills and the Sioux but they were malnourished, weak from ill-treatment and most likely sick. Some of them many have simply died here from natural causes and their companions buried them. "

"I'm pretty sure it's not Yellow Hair although he would have a perfect right to haunt. Cody shot him from a coward's distance, then scalped and looted his body. Somehow, though, I just don't see him up on this hill whispering. I'd think he'd be out there trying to kill himself some Park Rangers."

"Good point." Dean agreed. "So what are we going to do about it?"

"Well, we have no hope of finding bones, I can't talk to them because I don't know their language and I doubt very much if they will lay down for Catholic prayers so I'm going to try and buy the hill from them."

Dean laughed. "You're going to buy the Hill?"

"I brought these bags of loose tobacco to pay for the ground. We brought sugar for their wives and I had some bracelets in the car made of quartz. We brought candy for their kids. If I set this stuff up like an offering some of them may re-connect with their wives and kids. It's the best I can do." Sam set out with his hands full to look for a safe place to leave his offerings.

Dean watched his brother and wondered how it was that Sam could connect so easily with the dead.

When the whispering started there was no need to strain to hear it. Dean looked around automatically and there was nothing there. He was about to call out to Sam when he noticed that his brother seemed to be walking through a green mist that collected around his legs below the knees. The mist rolled and bubbled just like boiling water. Dean ran after Sam.

"Sam, don't look now but you're walking through a boiling green mist." Dean said when he caught up..

"Good," Sam responded. "Good to know that they're here." He found some loose rocks and hid his gifts under of pile of them. "Let's go, Dean. It's all I can do for them."

XXXXXXX

The brothers gathered their things and headed down the hill, back to the car. Behind them the Nebraska wind still carried the sound of men whispering but now there were also women's voices and the laughter of children.


	4. Chapter 4 - The Lighthouse Keeper's Wife

The Supernatural characters belong to Kripke Enterprises and the CW, not me. No money is being made from this story. It is for entertainment only.

**A/N**: Many thanks to Winter Gray who found this ghost for me and did a lot of initial research on the haunted lighthouses of Door County, Wisconsin.

**Real Ghost Stories**

Chapter 4

**The Lighthouse Keeper's Wife**

She stood on the balcony at the very top of the tower and looked out over the ice-choked, heaving water. The wind whipped at her, vicious frozen fingers tugging at her shawl, trying to rip it off; stealing it for itself. The shawl and her skirts and her long dark hair, all playthings of the greedy air

She rested her gravid gut against the ice covered railing and listened to the groaning lake. As the cold lake waters surged under the frozen surface the ice was stretched and groaned against the pressure. Along the shore the shards of glittering, broken ice beat upon the sands.

She remembered that noise from her first delivery. The groans of the ice seemed to match her own sounds as she labored throughout the day and long into the night to finally deliver her beloved first born, Isaac.

When they finally lay him upon her breast the chains of love grappled her heart. All the pain went away; she no longer noticed the blood as she gazed into his eyes. Three years later those chains snapped as the Whooping Cough took him and her sweet baby girl, Molly.

So they buried those two in the little graveyard below the light and she was already carrying her third. In a way that child, Mildred, got to attend the funeral of her brother and sister.

The winter wind blew stronger now and she remembered the summer before she married William; how warm the days, how soft and green the springtime grass. She had been pursued by all the young men. They were attracted to her like bees to spilled honey. They just wanted a taste, a kiss, a look and she twirled the flowers they brought in her fingers and flirted.

Among the blonde haired farmers' daughters she stood out, an exotic plant. She was dark, they were light. She was slim and danced. They were solidly grounded to the earth. There were ill-tempered mutterings about mixed blood but the young men paid no mind.

In the end it was William she chose. At their wedding they danced and laughed but then he betrayed her and brought her here, to the bitter cold lighthouse overlooking the rocky shore

And here they stayed on the Door Peninsula, for decade after decade. She marked the years with births and deaths. Nine children numbered the pages of her life; five already were in the ground. Isaac had died the night after Molly and those first deaths were the hardest to bear. Molly, so tiny, gasped and coughed on her breast and finally, breathed no more. Isaac followed the very next night. She really did not want more but her only comfort was her husband's arms and, lost in passion, she forgot the pain.

Now she felt old, all her life's pages torn and stained and here she was again, pregnant, with her tenth. It could not be borne any longer. Her body had rebelled. Her hips ached constantly; she now walked with a cane. She could hear her dead children's voices, playing below in their little fenced graveyard. She didn't understand why they weren't cold but, then, it was her job, her only job, to keep them safe and warm. She had failed them, as her life had failed her, of every promise.

When she threw herself over the balcony her only thought was 'It is ended, Thank God'.

XXXXXXX

"Don't we usually go south for the winter"' Sam asked from the passenger seat of the Impala. "What's the name of this Winter Wonderland again?"

Dean snorted, "It's called Rock Island. "

"Sounds lovely," Sam replied as he flipped open a brochure with a colorful picture of a red house on the front. "Is it some kind of a tourist destination? Our usual hunts don't run to pretty, glossy maps."

The brothers had left Lebanon, Kansas in the early morning and now, nine and half hours later, they were on the outskirts of Des Moines, Iowa.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon and they agreed it was way past time to take a break and have a late lunch.

Dean pulled into a chain restaurant parking lot and parked the car. Sam stomped around the lot for a little bit, getting the sensation back in his legs. These long drives always were hard on his legs. They were too long for the seat well and he couldn't really straighten them out anywhere in the Impala without literally standing on his head.

Once or twice as a teenager he had done that in the back seat when his father insisted that they were in way too big of a hurry to save strangers to give consideration to his own son's comfort. Sam always felt he and his brother came in second to random strangers in his father's heart.

Dean had already gone inside and secured them a booth by the window where he could see the Impala. Sam watched his brother pull a goofy smile and wave big at him.

"Idiot," Sam thought, feeling a momentary tug to a long gone Bobby.

Once inside he dodged an overly aggressive hostess by pointing at his waving brother. He felt threatened. He knew if she got her hands on him he would be in for some uncomfortable groping. Dean would never let him live it down.

She did manage to cop a feel under the guise of pointing Dean out with a hand on his back that somehow just slipped all the way to his ass.

When he was safely seated away from roving hands he focused on his brother who was sniggering into a menu.

"Found another cougar, bro? It's amazing. What do they see in you?" Dean could hardly contain his amusement.

Sam huffed and lifted his messenger bag containing the lap top on to the table. He booted it up and then asked Dean,

"Where exactly did you say we were going?"

Dean didn't even look up from the menu, as if everybody in the Continental U.S. didn't know what he was going to order, "Pottawatomie Lighthouse."

"Where?"

"The Pottawatomie Lighthouse."

"Where?"

"I said", Dean huffed, "The Pottawat….Damn it, Sam!"

Sam was giggling. "I just wanted to see if you could say it three times. Do you think Beetlejuice will show up?"

Shut up, bitch." Dean was angry at being suckered.

"Shut up yourself, jerk. No need to laugh at me getting groped."

"Fine, I'm sorry." Dean growled.

"Good, you should be," Sam snapped back.

The waitress came and took their orders. After she left the table Dean said "You know, I've been driving since 5:30 this morning. I think you should drive the next eight hours or so into Sturgeon Bay."

"Fine by me," Sam responded. "At least it'll keep my legs awake."

Dean went on, "Since we won't get there until about eleven tonight maybe you should use the magic box to get us some reservations somewhere."

Sam was happily clicking away when Dean noticed Sam's typing speed go into an abrupt decline.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said slowly, "Have you taken a close look at where we are going?"

"No, not really, " Dean answered. "Why?"

"How did you find this hunt?"

"Remember Ranger Brad McDonald at the Fort Laramie Wyoming Park?" Dean answered. "He was at a Park Ranger convention. Who knew they have conventions? And he was talking us up to a group of his friends. This Wisconsin Park Ranger asked him for our contact number."

"Is this another paying job?' Sam asked.

"Yep," Dean replied with satisfaction. "You may have been right about getting those uniforms, I guess. We are officially the "guys about the Ghost" on Park bulletin Boards."

"Well, Mr. Guy about the Ghost, take a look where we're going." Sam turned the laptop to face Dean.

"What is that?" Dean traced an outline on the screen.

"That is the Door County Peninsula. It is a narrow witch's finger more than 50 miles long , pointed straight out into Lake Michigan. The west side is Green Bay, yes like the football team, and the East side faces the Lake. That little dot at the top? Looks like the witch's finger nail? Or, if you like, the peninsular looks like a crone's nose with a wart on the tip. That is Rock Island."

"Crap." Dean said. "You can't get out any further in the lake, can you?"

"No," Sam replied. "Your Pottawatomie Lighthouse stands on the north most tip of Rock Island, backing on to the lake. It has to be one of the coldest, most isolated buildings in the U.S."

Dean bit into his burger. "Come on, it can't be that bad. I though Door County was like Adult Disneyland for the good people of Wisconsin."

"According to the tourist brochures you gave me, that's right. It is a fascinating and beautiful piece of Lake History." Sam went on. The Pot Lighthouse, yes that's what they call it, is Door County's oldest lighthouse. In 1834 Detroit merchants and ship owners petitioned congress to build a lighthouse to guide ships into Green Bay."

"The first lighthouse, a circular tower and a free standing Keepers house went up in 1836. In 1856 the original structure was demolished because the wrong mortar was used in building it and moisture got into the walls. The new lighthouse was a house with the lamp on the roof. That light could be seen 14 nautical miles out to sea. The lighthouse is now on the National Register of Historic Places along with 63 other Historic structures and shipwrecks on or near the Peninsula."

"The Door County peninsula is known as the 'Cape Cod of the Midwest'. This County, just over 2,000 square miles in size with just 480 square miles above water, has 5 State Parks, in addition to the 64 recognized historical sites and 298 miles of shoreline. There are 12 lighthouses, three of which are supposed to be haunted. The main business of the entire peninsula is tourism. The population goes from 27 thousand in the winter to almost a quarter of a million in the summer."

"What's the ghost that they want us to handle supposed to be?"

Dean put down the burger again and tented his hands under his chin. "It's supposed to be a screamer. A woman throws herself off the roof and screams all the way down. The Ranger-In-Charge, a Mr. McAllister, can't keep his docents in the museum. One experience and they all go home. He's running out of people to ask."

"I know who we're dealing with," Sam said as he packed up his laptop. "Eat up. Her name is Emily Betz and she has been screaming for 150 years. It's time to give her some peace."

XXXXXXX

Early the next morning they garaged the Impala at the ferry terminal and rode over to Rock Island from Washington Island. It was their second ferry ride of the day. At the dock Mr. McAllister met them and gave them a ride to the lighthouse in a vehicle Dean called a 'golf cart'. Sam just rolled his eyes and ignored his brother.

The house stood four square with a bright red paint job and a shiny new roof. Sam wondered if they had run into another 'neat and tidy' ranger like Ranger McDonald in Laramie. He was beginning to think it might be training instead of personality.

Sam stood and stared. The lighthouse looked nice but he wondered just what it had been like to live there 150 years ago with no running water, fireplaces for heat and 9 children to raise. Emily Betz must have been an Amazon. Every drop of water in the house had to be carried by hand. She had to home school her children and her husband had to dig their graves when the all too common childhood diseases carried more than half of them off. Sam knew from his searches that there were descendants on the peninsula related to the four children who had made it into adulthood.

He turned to Mr. McAllister. "Do you know of any living relatives to a former keeper couple who lived here, William and Emily Betz?

"You know, that's odd. I do know someone and she happens to be right here. One of my docents, Amelia Crocker, is a direct descendent of the Betz family. Mr. McAllister replied. "Do you want to meet her?"

Sam nodded. "Yes, I want to do more than meet her, I want to get her help in putting this ghost down. Can you find her for me?"

Mr. McAllister took off in quest for Ms. Crocker.

"What are you up to Sam?' Dean asked.

"I'm pretty sure I know why she falls and why she screams but I think it will take a descendant's blood to stop her." Sam answered.

"Oh," Dean hesitated. "I was wondering if we were going to have to dig up and burn babies tonight.

"I'll tell you what," Sam said. "You go check out the graves. See if they're active. Watch out for the Indian graveyard. I understand that it is active too. We don't need them. Just try to find her kids. I'm going to set up the ritual on the balcony around the lens."

Dean stared up at the light. "How far off the ground do you think that is, Sam?"

"Man up, big brother. I won't let you fall. The Lighthouse Keeper's Wife could handle it, so can you." Sam laughed at Dean's expression. "I know, it hurts but go do your work. I have to go get this woman's blood. I don't necessarily want her hanging around here tonight just in case we do have to dig up the kids."

XXXXXXX

Sam sat on the balcony planking. He had his favorite brass summoning bowl with fragrant herbs splashed with the blood of Ms. Amelia Crocker and the two Winchesters. It had been a bit of a chore to explain to Ms., Crocker that her donation was going to put her great, great, grandmother to rest, but he had finally convinced her. She was shocked to realize that she was directly related to the famous "screaming woman" but felt bad for Emily and offered to do anything that would put her to rest.

Sam had decided to do the ritual alone. He had stationed Dean and the undeniably attractive Ms. Crocker along the graveyard fence, to be called up if needed and to keep the children quiet. He had given Dean strict instructions not to hit on Ms. Crocker and to keep it in his pants if she came on to him. He had to agree with his cranky brother that after the ritual was completed, all bets were off. Dean really hated being told 'No', especially by his little brother.

The lighthouse lens was lit. This he had not expected and watched the beam pass over his head and shine on the glittering ice. Periodically the fog horn, located out on the cliff, would sound. The atmosphere was sufficiently spooky, he thought. He was also freezing important parts of his anatomy.

During a sweep of the beam he caught the flicker of a form. Next time around he saw it more clearly, a tall woman clutching a shawl in the wind and leaning on the balcony railing. He lit the bowl and began a prayer. It was the Hail Mary, not particularly appropriate but it caught the woman's attention. She turned to look at him.

"Hello, Emily." She moved closer to the small flame and waved a hand through the smoke.

"Yes, can you feel her blood?' Sam asked her. " Your granddaughter's blood, Her name is Amelia. She's alive because of you."

The beam swept around again and the woman's form thinned in the light, she flicked back to the railing.

"No, Emily, stay with me ." Sam ordered. She looked at his face again and then glanced at the ground. She could not hear her children's' voices.

"Emily, stay with me," Sam ordered again and wafted more smoke at her. "My brother and Amelia, your granddaughter, are with the children, they are fine."

Emily flickered up to him again. He slid back down to the floor

"Amelia would not be alive except for you." He told her. "It's ok, you did fine. There are more children alive because of you. Be at rest. You did fine."

Back and forth they went, Sam reassuring her, her looking down to the ground for her dead children.

He chanted the Lord's Prayer and the Prayer for the Forgotten Dead. The prayers seemed to sooth her. The flickering form became more stable and didn't dissipate in the light.

He was hoping to speed this up a little. He ass was freezing to the planking. "Emily," he ordered. "Let go. You did fine. The children are sleeping. You can go now."

She turned in a circle, unsure of which way to go. Finally, as his teeth started to chatter, she made a decision to let go of her grief. With a smile she dissolved in to mist and blew away on the wind.


	5. Chapter 5 - Alone in Seattle

The Supernatural characters belong to Kripke Enterprises and the CW, not me. No money is being made from this story. It is for entertainment only.

**Real Ghost Stories**

Chapter 5

**Alone in Seattle**

She moved through the clamoring hordes. They should have pushed her out of the way, shoved her aside as a weak old woman, but for some reason they never touched her. She walked alone among strangers, futilely trying to hit them with her cane. She just wanted to go home.

XXXXXXX

Sam and Dean arrived at the Seattle Pike Place Public Market in the early morning. Dean was still muttering about coffee and annoying little brothers and trying to sleep in the passenger seat, Sam's usual spot. Sam smiled at the sleepy grumping. Northing was more fun than dragging his brother out in the chill morning air against his will.

They parked in front of a "Farmer's Market" sign and Sam stepped out of the car. Taking a big breath of the ocean air he nearly gagged. Mixed in with the salt air and the wisps of brewing coffee was the overriding smell of dead fish. Sam coughed out his breath of fresh air and a voice floated out from the Impala. "I told you that fresh air stuff was crap. Choke on it, little brother."

"Dean," Sam shot back. "You're the world's number one jerk. Get out of the car and hunt for your coffee yourself."

Sam turned, crossed his arms and looked out over the grey ocean waves.

He heard the sound Dean's door opening and feet hitting the black top. He listened as a litany of "Bitch, bitch, big ass bitch, biggest bitch in the world, bitch which faded out as his brother set out on a coffee hunt.

"Sam," Dean whined. "Why am I standing out here on a cold ocean boardwalk at an unreasonable hour of the morning? I want my nice warm, cozy bed." True to the laws of brotherhood Dean had brought Sam a paper container of hot coffee, the successful fruit of Dean's hunt.

Sam sipped and looked out over the ocean. "The Native Americans lived here for over ten thousand years." Sam mused. "They settled beside these waters at the end of the ice age, the seasons swung on the salmon spawning runs. They ate berries and roots and shell fish and salmon and their days were stable from one century to the next. "

Dean laughed, "Ok, so they were here for one long assed time. Why are we here?"

Sam turned back to the Market buildings. "Some were not as lucky. They existed at the end of their world, when the Europeans came and "The Spirit of Pestilence" arrived in the mid 1700's and ravaged the population for a hundred years.

"Then in the mid 1800's the Europeans discovered the richness of this land and moved in with their buildings, and commerce and grasping hands. The "People of the Inside", the Duwamish, were pushed out. A few select families managed to hold on to their hereditary lands or lived along the edges. "

Sam stopped and waved his cup at the Market. "This was built on top of a ramshackle cabin that was home to one of the last, the so-called Princess Angeline, the oldest daughter of Chief Seattle. The city is named after him, although it is a gross mispronunciation of his name."

"Her name wasn't Angeline and she wasn't a Princess, that name and the title were given to her by the early settlers. Her name was Kikisoblu and she lived on this shore all her life and died here too."

"At the end the city recognized her as a last link to the past and the people of Seattle gave her an excellent funeral and burial. Her coffin was made in the shape of a canoe and the last rite carried out at the Church of Our Lady of Good Help and she was buried at Lake View Cemetery."

That was nice of the city," Dean interjected.

"it would have been better if they had recognized her before she died when she was supporting herself doing laundry and weaving reed baskets to sell." Sam responded. "Here's a picture of her on her front porch taken in 1890. I got it from the collection of the University of Washington Library."

Dean looked at a picture of, not a house, but a shack, built of miscellaneous pieces of wood. On the front porch sat a woman in a long plaid skirt. The brothers rarely got the chance to look at the living faces of the ghosts they hunted.

"As David Buerge wrote in his book on the Natives of the Pacific Northwest "For 500 generations they flourished until newcomers came… much was lost, much was devalued, but much was also hidden away in the hearts of the dispossessed." Sam stopped talking and dumped the rest of his coffee out.

Dean shook himself out of the spell of his brother's voice. "Ok, like I asked, what are we doing here?"

Sam tuned and studied his brother's face. "We are going to go try to get her to let go. She walks all around this market. Some people see her, most don't. Those that see her generally are frightened but I think she is simply lost and trying to find something that she remembers. Let's go walk and look for her."

The brothers wandered the market. Dean was entranced with three full floors of stuff; strange little shops that sold baskets and sea shells or told fortunes. He stopped and stared at a marionette shop. Sam was making small random purchases here and there.

"What 'd you got, Sam?" Dean finally asked when Sam stopped to look at berries out in front of a food store. "Where's your summoning bowl?"

Sam smiled. "Do you really think a brass bowl is going to help with this ghost, Dean?" Sam showed him a reed basket he had bought at the "Real Native Crafts" store. "I think she will find this much more familiar."

He waved a hand at the berry display. "These are all native to the region. In the summer and fall her people would gather thumbleberries, Salal, raspberries, salmonberries, blackberries, strawberries, and more, to eat then and to dry for the long winter. Berries were a large part of their diet. I thought she might like some."

Dean smiled as they sat down on a convenient bench. "What else you got in the bags? You're going to be her sweetheart at this rate with the pretty presents you're buying for her."

Sam opened a bag and lifted out handfuls of sea shells for his brother's inspection. "I've got a basket and berries and beads for her. I think a little dried fish will finish the whole thing nicely. They should all be comfortable, familiar things for her."

"Well, you've come to the right place for fish, that's sure." Dean said and waved his hand in front of his face. "Smells to high heaven here with the fish."

"That's the fish market." Sam said and stood up. "You've got to come see this. It's famous."

Dean trailed after his brother. "A famous gathering of dead fish. This I've got to see"

They came around a corner and laid out in front of them was the Pike Place Fish Market where muscular young men threw purchases to the customers. "Look at that, flying fish," Dean said in awe.

"Like no one's ever thought of that before," Sam snarked back. "But look in front of you, there she is."

An old, wrinkled and toothless woman was moving slowly down the aisle. As the brothers watched a fish was thrown through her. Dean giggled. She had ignored the fish but, he thought, the fish had ignored her too. Of course, the fish was dead. But then, so was she. He laughed out loud at the thought.

Sam pinched his lips tightly and glared at his giggling brother. "Don't laugh at her, you jerk,"

"Oh, settle down, Sammy-kins. I don't think she heard me."

Sam demonstrated that it was possible for his lips to tighten even more. He waved his free hand at Dean, indicating that he should move away from Sam and his ghost. Sam looked around and found seating where people could rest their feet and watch the fish market antics.

He showed the ghost his basket with the gleaming berries and piles of shell. He was right, it attracted her attention and she moved towards him. He backed into the nearest bench seat and set the basket down beside him, leaving her plenty of room to approach. Just to be safe he flicked a look at Dean, making sure his brother stood guard.

The old woman ghost put out a shaking hand to try and touch the berries and she looked up into Sam's face.

He saw, clearly, a memory fill her eyes and heard the high, sharp calls of sea birds. She was dreaming of a slim legged native girl dancing on the sand lined shore, chasing the birds away from her clams and laughing. Far in the distance dark clouds were gathering but they made no impression on the pretty young girl. He knew it was her; it was Kikisoblu, gathering the clams as a girl, happy before all the troubles began. The old woman's face relaxed and her hand hovered over the basket and his gifts.

Her shoulders fell and her face softened and he saw her fall apart in an invisible wind and blow out to sea on a memory.

Dean stood to the side, once again impressed that Sam could do these things, could connect and give a spirit rest. He only wished the best for Kikisoblu and hoped she could stay in the past forever.

ooOoo

X

X

ooOoo

X

X

ooOoo

X

X

ooOoo

X

X

ooOo_o_

Resources used for this story:

"Ghosts Among Us" by Leslie Rule, 2004

Legends of America web site, .com

Wikipedia: the Duwamish tribe


	6. Chapter 6 - Little Millie Pratt

ooOoo

xXx

The Supernatural characters belong to Kripke Enterprises and the CW, not me. No money is being made from this story. It is for entertainment only.

**Real Ghost Stories**

Chapter 6

**Little Millie Pratt**

The Old Pratt Hotel sat high up in the Central Colorado Rockies. Just outside of the tiny statutory town of Empire it subsisted upon tourists and would-be ghost hunters, all of who feasted on the sad, lonely spirit of little Millie Pratt. Once a proud and gracious Lady of the Mountains, the now tottering hotel lived on scraps the world tossed it.

Sam and Dean pulled up at the entrance of the Old Pratt Hotel and Sam went to get their bags out of the trunk. He waited for Dean to park the Impala and come back to him. The bell hop, who was probably older than the hotel, huffed and left, seeing any possibility of a tip fade into the flannel shirt pocket of the newest hotel visitor. Sam watched the old man leave and Dean skittered up beside him,

"What's up with the old guy?" Dean watched the stiff backed old gentlemen disappear into the dark interior.

"No, tip," Sm grunted. ""Get your bag but wait. Before you go in I have to talk to you." They sat down on a bench just outside the entrance and looked out over the little mountain town, sparkling in the clean mountain air of the all too brief high mountain summer.

"Alright," Dean started. "What's the skinny on this hunt? You told me squat other than directions on the way up here. How much are they paying us to un-ghost their little tourist trap?"

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, a classic Sam 'tell'. "Well, that's just it, Dean. There is no pay involved. It's just something that I wanted to look into." Sam glanced at his brother, trying to gauge the level of his irritation.

Dean turned on the bench and cast a veiled stare at his Sammy. "What have you done, Sam? This little trip is costing us a pretty penny and I didn't see any convenient pool halls on our way up here."

"Sorry, but it's really sad and I thought we might be able to help." Sam leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. "You just can't say anything or they'll throw us out."

"Is this another one of those State protected ghosts again? Are the cops going to show up and arrest us for killing off another money-maker like the Baniff Hotel ghosts up in Canada? " Dean snorted. "I can't believe you got us on another one of those."

"No, it's not State protected but this Hotel will dry up and blow away without their little ghost to keep them in business." Sam responded. "Half their guests come from ghost hunting excursions."

Dean stood and stretched, breathing in deeply to get his momentary irritation with his little brother under control. "Well, we're here and I'm hungry. Let's check in and you can pay for it. "

They hoisted their bags and walked through the glass doors that were uncomfortably grafted on to the front of the hotel lobby. Sam thought they looked very much out of place but it wasn't his problem. They found the registration desk and in no time were ushered to their room on the second floor by the ancient bell hop. This time Sam did tip him.

"Ok, Sam." Dean huffed as he threw himself on his bed. "What's the story? Why am I here instead of some place warm like L.A.? It gets nippy up here at night, you know and I didn't see anybody in this hotel younger than about fifty so looking for a warm body to keep the chill out is also a non-starter."

Sam threw his spare pillow at his brother nailing him right in the face. "God, you are such a one trick pony. Can't you even think about anything but sex?"

"Give me something better to think about and I'll take a run at it." Dean responded. "Are you going to tell me about this ghost or you gonna wait for me to fall over it?"

Sam propped himself up on his head board.

"Right after the Civil War a Union officer named William Ludley Pratt made a fortune in the gold fields of California. He brought his money here to Colorado and built this hotel supposedly to have a place to bring his sick wife to recover from tuberculosis. At the time doctors had no idea how to treat the disease and dry mountain air was the only recommended treatment that showed any signs of success."

"Pratt's wife brought with her their baby daughter, Millie." Sam took a breath and continued.

"As was the way then, Pratt's wife got sicker and sicker and finally, when Millie was about five years old her mother died and Pratt was left grieving for his wife with a five year old on his hands."

"He withdrew from his little daughter, leaving her care in the hands of a crippled old woman who lived on the third floor of his hotel, mostly confined to her bed or a chair from weakness. Millie was left alone most of the time in the big, empty hotel. She spent her days wandering the hotel, checking the rooms for her missing mother, playing in the halls and waiting for her mostly absent father to visit."

Dean sat up straighter on his bed. "Don't tell me the ghost is a little kid."

Sam went on, "Hotel staff could hear Millie playing with her ball in the hallways and wandering about, crying for her Mommy. One day, not surprisingly, when no one was watching her, the little girl fell down the front staircase and died at the bottom. So, yes, our ghost is a little kid."

"God, Sam, " Dean said. "How are we going to deal with that? Do you know where she's buried?"

Sam shook his head. "It's not going to be that easy, Dean. After Millie died her father sold the hotel as soon as he could, and had his wife and his daughter both dug up and transported back east for re-burial. He and his money and the bodies of his family disappeared from the historical record. I have no idea where he went."

"The only thing left behind in Colorado was the spirit of his baby daughter who supposedly roams these halls at night, bouncing her ball and knocking on doors and walls looking for her Mommy. Women guests are often awakened in the middle of the night by a small child's voice whispering Mommy, Mommy against their cheek."

Dean stood and restlessly moved to the window. "What do we do about it, Sam?"

"She's too young to talk to Dean," Sam said. "Normally I wouldn't even try. I'd just avoid something like this because it would hurt too much to contact the spirit and have nothing to offer but something else started happening here and I might have an idea."

Dean turned to look at his brother gain. "What is it?"

"There have been reports of another ghost," Sam went on. "A man in a blue uniform of sorts appears sporadically in some of the rooms. I think her father may be looking for her."

"Well, that's creepy," Dean said. "How long ago did these people all die?"

"I think the wife and Millie would have died in the 1870's but the father may have gone on for who knows how long. He could have easily made it into the 20th century," Sam responded. "I'm thinking of summoning him. This is all his fault and guilt is a powerful motivator."

XXXXXXX

After dinner that evening the brothers retreated to their room and took turns standing watch while one slept and then the other. It was about three in the morning when Sam heard the thump, thump, thump of a child's ball bouncing down the upper hallway. There was the sound of lightly skipping feet. He poked Dean awake.

"I think we've got one of them now, " he whispered to Dean. "Stand watch while I set up the summoning."

Sam grabbed his duffle and dug out his favorite brass bowl. He dumped in a mixture of herbs and other materials that he had mixed together earlier, chanted an invocation and lit the dry leaves. The smoke filled the room. He had previously pulled down the smoke alarm and taken out the batteries. He just hoped it all would be over before the smoke hit the hallways.

Dean kept watch through the crack of the slightly opened door and listened to the increasing beating on the walls. There was something more than a five year old's hand beating on those walls. It was grief and sorrow and loneliness turning into rage.

He glanced back to Sam. "How's it going, Sam? She's getting closer and I think she's throwing a tantrum."

Sam's voice rose in command and a bluish flickering started in the corner of the room. It was like a radio just skipping over the edges of a station; not quite catching the right frequency but closing in on it. Sam's voice became stronger and the light flickered more slowly. The pounding was coming down their hall now, getting closer and closer.

The figure of a man coalesced from the static and Sam shouted for Dean to open the door and duck. Both brothers hit the carpet with their arms over their heads and a shot of something like lightening went straight for the door.

When the light hit the hallway the pounding, which had become deafening, stopped dead. There was a smell of ozone in the air.

Dean pushed up from the floor. "Well, that was exciting. Do you think we're going to get evicted for making too much noise?"

Sam laughed. "Let's just try to get some sleep before they realize that their ghost has been kidnapped. I really want to hear them try to rationalize throwing us out."

"Tell me, Sam." Dean said quietly. "What do you think just happened?"

Sam stood and walked out into the hallway. There was just a faint wisp of smoke floating in the air from his little herbal fire. The hallway was empty, the walls undented and nighttime peace lay heavily in the air.

"I think Mr. Pratt found out once he got to the end of his days that he had left the most important thing behind when he left Colorado and he was just trying to get it back."

OoOoo

xXx

xXx

ooOoo

xXx

xXx

ooOoo

This was my take on the Millie Pratt legend. This legend has circulated in ghost hunting circles for years and can be found on the oldest of the ghost hunting sites online, The Shadowlands. It can also be found on the Fogotten USA web site and in the book "Ghosts of the Old West" by Earl Murray (1988).

Where the Old Pratt Hotel can't be found is on any Colorado map on Map Quest or in the List of Historical Hotels. There are five Pratt hotels listed but none of them is in Colorado. There is a hotel in the little town of Empire (pop. 355 in last the census) but it is called the Peck House - a historic hotel and restaurant. It was founded about the right time but the man who built it arrived with a perfectly healthy wife and three teen age boys. The Peck House is still in business. The little town of Empire is west of Lawson, Colorado on Route 40. If anyone knows anything more about this legend I would love to hear from you.


	7. Chapter 7 - The Eastland Disaster

ooOoo

xXx

The Supernatural characters belong to Kripke Enterprises and the CW, not me. No money is being made from this story. It is for entertainment only.

**Real Ghost Stories**

Chapter 7

**The Eastland Disaster**

The Winchester brothers parked on a dark Chicago Street, across from an imposing Granite clad building looming out of the dark.

"What is this place, Sam? Dean asked. "It looks a little like a Castle and are those Gargoyles beside the doors?"

"This is the Excalibur," Sam replied. "The building itself has been here since 1896 and right now it's home to a couple of nightclubs but that's not why I'm interested in it." Sam sat with his hands on his knees, the street lights throwing his eyes into darkness. "Almost a hundred years ago this building acted as one of the temporary morgues for the bodies recovered from the Eastland disaster."

"All right, I'll bite," Dean pushed their duffels around in the back seat. "What's the Eastland disaster and what are we hunting?"

"This place is full of ghosts. Sam went on. "I have no idea what to do about them all but even letting a couple of them go to rest would be a good thing."

"They are ghosts of mostly women and children who were drown on a bright summer's morning back in 1915."

Dean stopped moving. "You want to give me a little more on this before we go in?"

Sam opened his door. "I don't think that we will be in any danger. These ghosts are confused and waiting. They were waiting when they died and most of them never knew what happened. Let's just break in and walk around. I need to find the morgue floor."

"There really shouldn't be anyone in the building except maybe Security Guards on an early Tuesday morning. The clubs don't open on Monday. Hopefully it will be completely quiet."

The Winchesters carefully moved around the building in the shadows created by weak city lights. They flitted like specters themselves, prodding for weak spots and quiet alcoves Finally a set of sunken stairs led Dean to a basement door that didn't so much require finesse as muscle to get open. Always aware that nightclubs would invest money in burglar alarms the boys were careful once inside.

Using covered flashlights they investigated their surroundings delicately, listening for any sound at all. Silently they flowed through the building like ghosts themselves and Dean waited for Sam's senses to alert them to the existence of anything that really should not be there.

After about a half hour Sam reached out and held on to Dean's arm. Sam flick his dimmed light forward on an open floor space and for just a moment Dean thought he could see women in long skirts and little boys in knee socks and knickers all aligned facing South toward the docks on the Chicago River. The woman wore cheerful summer straw hats, decorated with ribbons and springs of flowers. The little boys hands clutched wooden toys or held on to the women's skirts, as small children always have, seeking safety in their mother's clothes. Little girls peeked shyly around their mothers but they all faced south.

Sam started slowly backing up and pulling Dean along with him. "There's nothing we can do right now. Let's get back to the car."

Once more slipping through the building, Dean remained quiet until they were safely back out in the Impala.

Sam pulled out a street map. "We need to go south on Clark and find the dock between La Salle and Clark streets on the River."

Dean pulled the map off Sam's lap. "What we need to do is fill Dean in on what we just saw. I think that might be the most ghosts I have ever seen in one place. What was this Eastland disaster, Sam? I'm done with playing in the dark."

"On a July morning in 1915 The Western Electric Company out of Cicero Illinois set up a company picnic in Michigan City, Indiana." Sam responded. "The company leased four boats to ferry the employees and their families across Lake Michigan to the opposite shore. The company had ten thousand employees and all the families were invited to attend. The picnic was a really big deal. Few of the families could afford vacations. One of the boats was the SS Eastland."

Sam paused for a moment imagining that summer morning. He rested his forehead on his hand. "Afterwards it was revealed that the Eastland had a history of listing since it was first put in the water due to a design flaw. The boat was top heavy and the center of gravity was much too high. It accumulated a history of flooding and listing and it's carrying capacity had been steadily downgraded from 3,500 passengers to 2,400 to 1,125."

"In addition, in response to the sinking of the Titanic, a law had been passed mandating more lifeboats for passenger vessels. This retrofitting of a whole bank of new lifeboats on the already top heavy Eastland, contributed to the disaster."

"Only three weeks before the disaster steamboat Inspector Robert Reed had been prevailed upon to file an amended certificate allowing the Eastland to carry 2,500 passengers plus crew again."

Sam looked at his brother. "While still roped to the dock and carrying an estimated 2,500 to 3,000 people the Eastland listed to port and rolled over, carrying all those people, mostly women and children to their deaths. Some were crushed by the boat; a lot were trapped on the lower deck and drown."

"In the end 844 bodies were recovered, the largest death toll of any Great Lakes boat disaster. They died not more than 50 from the dock, in about 20 feet of water and there was nothing anyone could do."

Sam rolled the map in his hands. "Whole families died, mother, father, children and even grandparents, all trapped in the same watery grave. 22 families were completed wiped out, no survivors. What we saw at the Excalibur were just some of the dead. The Excalibur was only one of the temporary morgues."

Dean sat still and his grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Is there anything we can do?"

"I want to go to the dock and take a look at how many more there might be. I don't know what use I can be to any of these spirits. They are all waiting for that boat to take them to their summer picnic." Sam whispered.

Dean started the car and they drove to the docks. Once there they stood together at the water's edge and looked out over the lights of Chicago. Dean had found the stark historical marker put up to commemorate the disaster. It seemed a pitiful reminder of eight hundred lives lost.

"What do you see, Sam?" Dean asked.

Again Sam touched his arm and for a moment Dean could see what Sam saw. Here it was men, lined up and gazing south. Mostly men; they were also waiting. Waiting for perhaps their wives or their children; or for that boat to take them across the lake to their brief summer holiday. A hundred years later, they still were waiting.

Sam flung out his arms and ran down the dock. To him it appeared that he was disrupting the ghosts. They broke up like soap bubbles as he went through but when he looked back they reassembled from the smoke of his passing. Nothing had changed; they stood and gazed over the water.

Sam trudged back to Dean. "I can accomplish nothing. I can't even get their attention."

"What about a summoning?" Dean asked. "Can you get them to see you?"

"What could I offer them, Dean?" Sam despaired. "They want their families; they want their summer day back. I have nothing to give them."

"Maybe the prayer; the prayer for the dead that I have seen you offer before." Dean replied. "Do you think it would help?"

"I don't think it will help here." Sam said. "I can't even get their attention; but I don't mind if we go back to the Excalibur. I feel like I might be able to at least attract the attention of one of the boys, maybe."

Dean knew that this was tearing at Sam. "Better one than none at all, Sam. Let's give it a try. We better hurry though, it's getting on towards sunrise and we don't want to get caught inside that building."

They retraced their path and Sam brought with him this time his smaller brass bowl and some sweet herbs. Once again on the morgue floor he sat cross legged and tried to catch the eye of any of the small spirits surrounding him. He lit a white candle and let it burn beside him. That flame finally caught the eye of a little boy holding a wooden toy horse. The little spirit came closer to the flame.

Sam dropped a lighter into the bowl and the herbs caught fire, creating a sweet smelling cloud of smoke. The little boy now seemed to focused completely on Sam and on Sam's prayer for the dead. Just as the boy began to glance back at a woman, who was now approaching, the sunrise broke through an upper window and formed a pool of light on the floor. Both the boy and the woman looked up at the sun, possibly for the first time since they died.

Their concentration on the boat broken, they both bathed in the sunlight.

With a last whisper from Sam they dissipated.

Dean came forward and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You do nice work, Sam." he said.


End file.
